Preacher's Wife (Sweet Town Clean Historical Western Romance Book 5)

by Sarah Christian

  "I believe so, but I've never been to a ball." He drew her close, making her breath lock still in her chest, his grin eyes holding her in the most inviting trap in history.

  It was just a dance, she told herself over and over again. Just one perfect night. She could walk away at the end of this and not mourn too deeply. At least, she prayed she could.

  Walking slowly, Matthieu strolled down the main street of Sweet Town, heading toward the soddies at the end of the road. he'd chosen to walk over riding his horse Rose thinking it wouldn't be as painful, but now he was having second thoughts. Every footfall brought sharp pain to his ribs, but at least he could breathe.

  Beulah had gone to the laundry to help Bridget with some last minute things. She was excited about the grand opening on Monday, not, as she had told him emphatically this morning, because she loved doing laundry, but because she would be earning a wage, which was the first step in having a home of her own. He understood her desire to move out of the mercantile quarters, and he supposed like all women she wanted nice clothes and pretty things.

  His mother had been like that. Always doing something new with her hair and the tignon she covered it with, crocheting little doilies to set about on the furniture, and keeping her flower garden out front neat and tidy. He smiled at the memory and a woman walking toward him on the street smiled back. That was one good thing about being a preacher, he considered. He could be friendly with just about everyone and no one thought anything of it.

  When Beulah had opened her mouth and began to sing the night before, Matt had been poleaxed. Certainly he'd heard many people sing over his lifetime, but Beulah gave the words such emotion with her rich voice. However, her singing was nothing compared to her dancing. He chuckled, and then quickly looked around to make sure his unseemly behavior hadn't been witnessed by any bystanders. No, Beulah couldn't waltz, but it had still been fun to remember the steps his mother had taught him years before, and hold a beautiful woman in his arms.

  Mika's door was wide open, and Matt called out a greeting. "Anyone here?" he said as peeked through the doorway.

  She was sitting cross legged on the floor, a pile of greenery on a clean cloth next to her on one side. On the other side she was placing the leaves she stripped from the stems into a bowl. Something smokey was burning in the small fireplace, and though it made his eyes sting a little, the smell was pleasant. "How are you today?" she asked looking up at him.

  "I'm better. I can breathe now but it still hurts when I bend or walk. I haven't tried lifting anything."

  "Good. Don't. Is Beulah still helping you?"

  "Yes, she's been an enormous help, but I feel like I can cook for myself. The cleaning can wait until I'm healed and I can hire someone to pump my water. While I appreciate her offer, I'm taking advantage of her goodwill."

  Mika shook her head. "It's not goodwill. It's guilt." She glanced at him slyly. "And something else."

  "Something else? What? I don't want her feeling guilty but what other reason could she have?"

  "Never mind that. Let me see your ribs." She rose from the floor in one smooth, fluid motion.

  The examination was short and soon Matt was back on the street, now headed to the opposite end of town, where the hotel loomed with its garish colors and strange angles.

  Mika had given him good news. The swelling was down, and if there was a fracture, it must not be too bad since everything was staying in place. Though he was glad he was on the mend, he wasn't looking forward to not having Beulah and her baby around every day.

  The hotel was owned by a Bohemian couple who could only speak Czech, Mr. and Mrs. Novákov and run by their English-speaking daughter Therese. Matt had heard that Mrs. Nováková was ill and as the sole pastor of Sweet Town, one of his duties was to visit the infirm and offer comfort.

  he'd always thought that was a hollow good deed, one that might make the giver feel good, but did little to actually help the receiver. Ordinarily, during a sick call visit, he chopped wood, washed dishes, fed livestock, and once even bathed a tub full of giggling toddlers. Unfortunately, though he was recovering from the accident, he wasn't fully up to snuff yet and would only be able to provide prayer and comfort to the Novákov family.

  Though it was early in the day, the dining room of the hotel was full. Miners and town folk alike were eating breakfast, or lingering over a cup of tea or coffee. As usual, Therese was being run off her feet. He raised a hand in greeting to her and found an empty chair near the kitchen door.

  "How are you, Pastor?" Therese asked when she had a moment.

  "I'm fine. I hear your mother is sick. Is there anything I can do?"

  "I sent a message to the midwife and she's preparing something for my mother to drink. It's her digestion, she can't keep anything down. I'll tell her you were here, but please don't go up to see her. She would be mortified in her present condition. One of the reasons I'm so busy today is because I'm having to do the cooking, as well as the waitressing." She pulled her braid over her shoulder and re-tied the ribbon at the end. "How are you, really? I heard you got knocked six ways to Sunday by that horse."

  "Truly, I'm fine. Miss Douglass has been helping me."

  "Yes, I know. Mrs. Bjugstad was in late yesterday and complained about you having a black woman staying at your house. Don't worry, no one is paying her any mind. Well, at least not most people."

  "Is it her gender or the color of her skin that's causing so much concern?" He grimaced. Most people in Sweet Town were kind and generous but in his experience, all it took was one angry, tormented soul to stir up trouble.

  Therese shrugged. "I think she just likes to be mad. Speaking of anger, I'd better take care of my customers or they'll start growling." She smiled, a dimple showing in her cheek, and swept away to cater to the diners.

  He looked around the room, idly wondering who had already been infected with the older woman's hatred. At a table not too far away two men sat. Beau Jennings was deeply familiar to him, the other was a stranger. Matt pulled his hat lower over his forehead and turned slightly away.

  "You lost everything in the war?" Jennings said to the stranger.

  "No, not in the war. It wasn't the war that did us in. It was freeing the slaves. That damn Lincoln interfered with my right to earn a living."

  "Free trade is a subject I take very seriously. Some plantation owners kept their slaves on as hired men. Did you try that?"

  The stranger laughed. "We told them they owed us money for rents and food and they had to keep working to pay us off. That kept us going for a few years. Eventually though, they all ran off. I took one slave, a breeding girl, and came out this way to start afresh. But now even she's run off. She had a baby, and by rights that's my child and I aim to get back what's mine."

  Matt's heart stopped for a moment, his ribs aching from something that had nothing to do with his injury. He tried to take another look at the pair.

  Jennings was staring down into his glass, face almost blank except for a slight furrow between his brows. "Watch yourself. There are likely some different ideas about civilized behavior here than yours."

  The stranger threw back his head and laughed. "Any semblance I ever had of being civilized has long fled. I'll find that girl and she'll think twice before she takes off again."

  "Let's run it through once more, just to be sure it works well." Bridget began stuffing a quilt into the washing machine tub.

  Beulah rolled her eyes. "Are you afraid it's going to shred the fabric?"

  "You never know. Emma and Neal Leonetti are almost done with their orphanage building, and already have children lined up to move in. Emma asked me if we could do their laundry on a regular basis." She paused for effect. "There will be a lot of laundry."

  "Just one child makes for a bit of washing so I imagine a whole houseful would create more than any one woman could do."

  "Yes, and being the laundress for the orphanage will bring in enough income that I can begin to pay you immediately."


  Beulah let her mind wander for a moment, imagining earning a living, having a little house to live in, just her and Jonah, and putting in a garden. All hers. No asking permission or worrying someone would take it away from her. She imagined what an evening would be like, after Jonah was in bed. Her little imaginary house would be quiet, too quiet. There would be no one to discuss her latest book with and no music or dancing. It would be lonely but the chances of her finding a husband in this territory were slim. She'd heard there were some freedmen further west, up in Deadwood but after seeing what miners and trappers were like she had concerns about them. Maybe she could track down her mother and sisters, and invite them to come here to live. So much hinged on this laundry being a success.

  A bell in the main room jingled and Beulah raised her eyebrows at Bridget. "What was that?"

  "I put a bell on the door, like Lucy has at the mercantile, so we can tell when someone comes in."

  "When the machine is running, we'll never hear it." She winked at her friend as she headed towards the doorway to the front room just as Matt appeared.

  One look at his posture and Beulah knew something was wrong. Grabbing his arm, she looked up under the brim of his hat, into his bright green eyes. "What's happened? Is it Jonah?"

  "No, I have no news of Jonah. Where is he?" he said as he looked around frantically.

  "He's with Emma. The noise is too great in here when the machine runs."

  "Do you think that's wise, having him away from you? What if something were to happen?"

  "You're talking crazy. What could happen? He's with Emma and she loves him like her own. What is going on?" She stamped her foot for emphasis. "Did Mika give you bad news about your ribs?"

  He paused and looked steadily into her eyes. Whatever the problem was, she was sure he was not going to tell her the whole story.

  "Mika said my rib is surely broken and I'll need your help for a while longer."

  Sagging with relief, Beulah finally let go of his arm. "Of course, I am glad to stay and help you. Do you need anything right now, or can I finish with this trial run of the machine?"

  "I have an errand to run. If you get done before I return, will you wait here for me? In case I need your help... with... something. At the church. Yes, if I could meet you here after my errand, and you could come with me to the church to do… something." His voice trailed off.

  He was certainly acting odd, Beulah thought. First he had arrived looking so agitated that she had been sure something terrible had happened. What sort of help might he need at the church and why was he being secretive?

  She shook her head. Between snapping at her over the letters in his study and now acting so peculiar, she wondered if he might have hit his head when the horse knocked him down. As she watched him walk down the street, away from the laundry, she pondered why he was heading toward the sheriff's office. Yes, something was going on, but it didn't concern her. She had work to do. She could put off making any decisions about where to live a little longer. And maybe Matt would play his fiddle tonight after the baby was asleep and they could dance.

  "What did you speak to the sheriff about?"

  Matt barely glanced back at her as they walked. Despite what he'd said of his injury, he was moving quickly enough. Faster than her, at least, weighed down as she was by Jonah in her arms. "I'll tell you in a bit," he said. "How are things going with the laundry?"

  "It's all as fine as can be. Bridget keeps checking things over just to be safe, though." Beulah frowned. The laundry couldn't possibly be that important to him that he was asking about it now. He was trying to brush her off and avoid talking about whatever had happened in town. The man kept secrets like a cat in an empty birdcage.

  When they got the church, Matt barred the door behind them, to her surprise. Did he think someone was going to chase them and burst into the building? She sat down on a pew, bouncing Jonah on her knee to keep the baby entertained.

  "Will you really speak to me now?" she asked.

  "I'm sorry. I didn't feel safe saying anything out there." Matt took off his hat. "I believe the man who abducted you is in town."

  She pulled Jonah closer. "How can you be sure?" she whispered.

  "I'm not sure but I think it's him. I saw him at the hotel and overheard him talking to another man. What he said fits your story. I asked Therese. His name is Hiram Bell."

  "Oh, good Lord, that's him." Her mouth was dry, and her lips stuck to her teeth. "I'd better leave before he finds out I'm here." Her heart was pounding a mile a minute and she squeezed her son so tight he let out a cry in protest.

  "He probably already knows you're here somewhere abouts. It's important you're always with someone nearby to keep you two safe." He paused and handed her a handkerchief from his pocket and it was only then she realized tears were coursing down her cheeks.

  All her dreams of a job and having her own place disappeared like smoke on a windy day. To think, just a couple of hours earlier she had been concerned with being lonely in the evening and now her son's life, as well as her own, were in jeopardy.

  "I spoke with the sheriff about Bell and he suggested you stay somewhere safe. I told him you were staying with me, and he said he'll be over later to talk to you." Matt set his hat on the bench next to Beulah and ran a hand over his hair, smoothing some of the curls escaping their tie at his nape. "But this could be a difficult situation because a judge may not care much and what the law says and how its honored aren't always the same thing."

  "Not care much? A man takes a woman prisoner, dishonors her, forces her to leave her newborn babe in the wilderness sure to die, and when she's rescued he comes looking for her, bold as anything. How could a judge not care about that?"

  "Beulah," he said as he took one of her hands in both of his. "It's not right, and it's not fair… it's not even legal, but there are people in positions of power and control who still hold that a black person must deserve the poor treatment he or she receives. They assume that the man who has the money is telling the truth, and the one who has nothing is lying."

  She went silent for a long moment before speaking again. "I could wish my color was different, but how can I? My mother's skin is just this shade. My beautiful sisters have hair like mine. How can I dishonor my own parents by not loving the body they created for me? How can I say it's a burden to be black when my son is listening to every word I utter?" She looked down at him and saw that he was staring up at her, his eyes big and serious. "No, I won't curse my skin color nor my fate. I want Jonah to be proud of who is is and where he comes from through my family. Not through Hiram Bell's."

  Matt had looked away and wouldn't meet her eyes.

  Gently, Beulah put her hand on his chin and turned his face back to hers. "I'm not ashamed to be black but that doesn't mean I would judge any man for doing what he had to do to survive." As before he gazed earnestly at her, his green eyes glinting sharp lights. He licked his lips and her eyes followed the trail of moisture he left behind. "Matt," she whispered. "I'm sorry for bringing this to your doorstep."

  "There's more and I might as well tell you. Hiram Bell wasn't alone."

  "Who was with him?" Beulah's brow crinkled in worry and confusion and she dropped her hand from where it caressed his chin.

  "I'm not who you think I am, Beulah. I'd like to say my deception hasn't been deliberate, but that wouldn't be true. However, I never singled you out."

  She leaned back against the pew and looked at him steadily. Her voice, when she finally spoke was strong. Any weakness she had shown before was gone. "How exactly have you deceived me?"

  Matthieu reached toward her and she flinched but she may as well have cut him with a dagger. In that moment he realized that though he hadn't wanted to, and had fought it, he was very attached to Miss Beulah Douglass. he'd known it back in January when she had come to Sweet Town for her baby. Every encounter they had since then had reinforced that he looked upon her as a woman, not just a parishioner, something the society he lived in woul
d never allow.

  "Are you a criminal, Matthieu?"

  "No. Nothing of the sort. The other night you told me your family had been slaves. My own grand-mère was a slave."

  "Then you grew up the same as me? But why wouldn't you tell me that? I suspected, of course. The hat, the oiled hair." She waved her hand in the air.

  Matt knew that she didn't mention the lightness of his skin because plantations and holdings all across the South had light-skinned slaves owing to abuse by white men of enslaved women.

  "I was never a slave. My grandfather was my grand-mère's owner and when her son, my father, was twenty-one he gave him his freedom."

  "And what did he do with himself, alone and free?"

  "This was in Louisiana and there were plenty of folks who'd never been slaves living there at the time. My mother's people are Creole gens de couleur and she was always free. But there was a lot of tension and things were hard, especially as the North tried limiting the spread of slavery in new territories and the South moved to secede from the Union. We moved often, further north each time, until we ended up in Illinois."

  Matt put his hands together, steepling his fingers, and rested his mouth against them. This was the part of the story where he wasn't proud of what he'd done. At the time, he felt he had no choice, but looking back, he wished he'd been more brave, and of a stronger faith to be honest and true to his family and who he was. Who he is, he corrected himself.

  "My father had been a blacksmith for many years and knew no other line of work. He had a hard time getting established in Illinois so it fell upon me as the only son to go out and earn a wage to help the family." He looked at Beulah to try and gauge how she was taking his story.

  "Go on," she encouraged without a hint of a smile.

  "I was young and strong, and I found work but often I had to go some distance to follow a job. I discovered that without my family around, I was mistaken as white." He looked away from her, in shame. "I didn't disabuse people of that notion."